


Teenage Wasteland

by claquesous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, Drugs, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marijuana, Patron-Minette Week, PatronMinetteWeek, transgender character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claquesous/pseuds/claquesous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patron-Minette is a tight-knit (despite their best efforts) circle of teenagers who can't be bothered to listen to anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skyscraping

**Author's Note:**

> Muse: "Are We The Waiting" by Green Day

“The best things in life are illegal,” Babet decides.

Brujon nods his approval and Claquesous rolls his eyes. As if they weren’t already living proof of that. Here they are sitting on the roof of a skyscraper, which in itself is probably violating all kinds of laws; getting high, which they like to think won’t be illegal for too much longer just because it’s so fucking ridiculous; drinking, because why the hell not; and Claquesous has no shirt on because it’s hot and nobody else does and he wants to keep pretending his body agrees with his brain and nobody will say anything or look too indiscreetly. In summary: public indecency, underage drinking, possession and use of marijuana, breaking and entering, trespassing, and probably a fuckton of other stupid shit.

Montparnasse speaks up. “Sex isn’t illegal.”

Babet snorts. “The way you do it probably is.”

Montparnasse waves a halfhearted middle finger at him.

Claquesous stands and perches on the edge of the building, wanting to close his eyes but preferring to make it to 21. One leg is folded under him and one is dangling into the hundreds of feet of nothing, and Claquesous takes a wonderful big breath. It’s smelly as shit up here, but there is really nothing like waving your life tauntingly before death.

(When there’s no real risk of death seizing the opportunity.)


	2. Bender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claquesous is an idiot and Brujon gives too few shits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse: "Shine" by The Used

Claquesous finally pried his eyes open, still feeling made of lead, his senses still clogged with the residual effects of various illegal substances. The hand clamped onto his shoulder shook him again, and he pinched whoever it was viciously in the arm.

“Fuck almighty, Sous, you could pretend to be grateful.”

His brain caught up to his eyes and he saw deep circles under Babet’s eyes, matted hair that looked like it had been slept on repeatedly. “Cigarette, then I’ll be grateful,” Sous rasped, realizing how shot his entire body was.

Babet snarled, “I don’t have any _left_ , you _suicidal asshole_.” He thrust his finger at the glass of water and bottle of Aspirin on the floor beside the mattress. At least Claquesous was in his own bed. “You get that instead.”

Claquesous glared but gulped down half the glass as quickly as possible, tossing a few pills into his mouth between swigs.

Babet sighed. “Now you’re going to throw it up because you’ve been out for like 36 hours. Goddammit, Sous.”

Claquesous eyed him strangely. That had sounded dangerously fond.

“What happened?”

Babet looked too angry to be smug. “You blacked out, evidently.”

“No shit.” Claquesous drank more of the water out of spite, and knew he was going to regret it.

“You got high enough to drink half a bottle of vodka, which got you drunk enough to drink way too much more. Idiot. I had to drag you here from Brujon’s.”

“Why didn’t Brujon do something?”

“Do you really think Brujon bothers to do anything but smoke and shoplift?”

Claquesous shrugged. “Bucket, please,” he said calmly.

Babet cast his eyes to the low ceiling, but handed Claquesous a plastic bag from his pocket. Claquesous’s body stiffened and doubled up and he threw up exactly as much liquid as he had just consumed, only on the way back up it was a stale brown. There were no pills, at least not in the state they had gone down. He licked his lips as Babet took it from him.

“Will you need this again in the time that it takes me to empty it into the toilet?” Claquesous shook his head.

“I’m so sober,” he whined weakly.

“You shut the fuck up. I haven’t had anything—no food, no weed, no alcohol, _nothing_ —but Montparnasse’s nasty-ass cigarettes since yesterday morning.”  
“What time is it?” Claquesous asked, looking around. It was either very early or pretty late.

“Evening. _Monday_ evening,” Babet added with a sharp look as he returned.

Claquesous buried his face in his foul-smelling pillow. He felt like utter shit, in every conceivable way. He had to turn his head so he wouldn’t suffocate, and he turned so Babet couldn’t see his face.

Just as he was starting to drift off, Claquesous felt Babet’s bony frame settle against his, and as the breaths against his neck evened out, fingers started carding gently through his hair. Claquesous’s body relaxed, and Babet held him closer. They didn’t speak.


	3. Every man for himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claquesous bails on Babet. It's a reality check, not a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse: "Miss Missing You" by Fall Out Boy

For some stupid reason, the emotion he's most acutely aware of is shock. He hasn't given Claquesous's untrustworthy nature much thought as it concerns himself, and he should have, because when he's suddenly gone, vanished, withdrawn by the night, Babet can't do anything for a good five seconds than look incredulously at the spot where Claquesous was standing. Only then does it occur to himself that the flashing lights did not vanish with the dude he thought was his _friend_ , and he's on his own and he better get moving. But he's too late, perhaps by as little as those five seconds. As it is, five minutes later his hands are cuffed and his face is pressed against the wet, filthy side of a cop car. Fortunately he knows better than to say all of the things to the cops that he would like Claquesous to hear, since he's probably still that close. Instead, he waits till he's manhandled into the back and the car starts moving to press his middle finger to the window, fuming.

* * *

 

Claquesous sees his baleful gesture from the top of a nearby building. He almost regrets bailing on him. Almost. In the end, though, nothing's as vital as staying spotless. Certainly not anyone else's freedom or trust.

* * *

They don't see each other again for a month, and Claquesous's not sure how much of that time Babet spent free but avoiding her. He doesn’t text, doesn’t call. Not that Claquesous couldn’t find him if she tried, but for some reason, she doesn't try. It's not guilt. Instead she moves predictably among her regular haunts so Babet can find her when he tries hard enough.

Sure enough, he's sitting on one of her doorsteps about a month after the arrest, looking unusually bedraggled and too tired to bother pretending otherwise. Claquesous figures he picked up a normal broke teenager job to avoid legal attention. He smells like grease and dish soap.

"Hi," she says, waiting for Babet to get up so she can let them in. He eyes her, something about him grateful at her greeting. She never says hi except on days she's feeling like a she, and he knows he's the only one she lets in on that. He’s missed her, goddammit. He stands reluctantly, now embarrassed to be caught on her doorstep like a clingy ex. He knows all too well what those are like.

She doesn't indulge his embarrassment, instead locking the door behind them and producing a joint out of nowhere. "It's about time. Brujon is horrible to smoke with." She lights it and Babet can see her shoulders relax immediately. "Though let no one say he doesn't have the most exquisite bud on the face of the earth," she sighs into Babet's face, handing him the fat joint.

He smiles ironically, taking it and pulling deep on it. "I believe he grows it, too." _So we're not talking about it._

"And he'd never give me seeds, asshole," Claquesous mourns. _Nothing to talk about. It was nothing personal and you would have done the same thing._

Babet hands the joint back and leans against the counter, looking at his hands. There are still marks around his wrists. _The thing is, though, I don’t know that I would have._ Of course, he would have just gotten them both arrested instead of one, which is as stupid as it is pointless. He would then have proceeded to nurse burning resentment towards himself and Sous for at least a month. There's no point in nobility. Babet knows this. And yet. He has this itchy sense that he would not have run.

Sous coaxes him into relaxing halfway through the joint, and they tangle up on the couch talking over the TV. It takes them a while to get back into each other, but they do it. And it’s not like Babet’s feelings are hurt. They’re not mad at each other. Their fight was the month of silence, and that’s over. Anyway, if they were fighting, they wouldn’t have shotgunned for another joint and a half or fallen asleep on the couch with Babet’s head on Sous’s chest, a skinny arm slung over her skinny stomach.

 


End file.
